


The Ghost of You (It Keeps Me Awake)

by stargate-ruiner (purpleplanet)



Series: Hauntings [1]
Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Agent Curt Mega has ADHD, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous Supernatural Elements, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Ghost Owen Carvour, Ghost Owen is mean, Ghosts, M/M, Possible Hallucinations, Supernatural Elements, Swearing, Tags to be added as fic progresses, When I Die. Then You Will Realize
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-02-26 00:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18713041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleplanet/pseuds/stargate-ruiner
Summary: Ever since Owen died, Curt's been haunted by the memory of being the one to end his life.Now? Curt's haunted by something a little bit more.





	1. Chapter 1

“It’s the blue wire.”

Owen peered down at Curt’s efforts on the bomb, looming over him like a tombstone over a grave.

 

Curt was hunched over the explosive, which rested on the floor. He hadn’t even wanted to risk moving it.

“I know what wire it is.” he muttered gruffly under his breath.

Then he cursed himself internally for giving in and replying. He shouldn’t indulge this.

 

“Right, the _blue_ one.” Owen insisted, his eyes still trained on Curt’s hand.

 

Curt held the wire cutters in a firm grip, nearly white-knuckled. His nervousness bled through the cracks in his bravado; his hands shook, and there was a tremor in his fingers.

This was supposed to be a routine mission. A nice easy return to spying. The kind of job that would let him get in and get out without barely even a scratch, and then go home and pat himself on the back and let him pour himself a drink in “celebration” and see if he had enough self-control to stop at one. Just enough danger to make him feel like he accomplished something.

 

But when does anything ever go as planned anymore?

 

Curt had more experience in detonating bombs than diffusing them, and yet, here he was. Expected to single-handedly dismantle this bomb before it went off. It had a little countdown clock and everything, just like a goddamn movie. If his watch were working, he could just call Barb and this would all be over with. But it wasn't, and he was in this alone.

Surely, he was about to save countless lives.

Provided that he cut the right wire.

 

Curt wiped the forming beads of sweat from his forehead with his free hand. He kept his view directly on the bomb.

 _Do not look up._ He reminded himself. _Do not look up, there’s nothing there._

 

He still hadn’t cut any of the wires.

 

Owen noticed the hesitation.

He threw his hands up, in a hyperbolic show of exasperation. “Oh my _God!_ What wire do _you_ think it is?!”

 

Curt grit his teeth.

_Don’t reply._

_Owen isn’t here._

_You shot him._

_Owen is dead._

_Owen is dead._

_Owen is--_

 

Owen tapped his foot impatiently. It made no sound, but Curt saw the gesture, and looked up. Owen met his gaze and raised his eyebrows, expectant and irritated.

“ _Well?_ ” he prodded.

 

His watch was broken.

The room was empty. Just him crouched on the floor over a bomb.

No one would hear him.

 

“The red wire.” he mumbled.

 

“What was that?”

 

_You heard me, you vindictive little --_

 

“The _red_ wire.” Curt repeated, louder now, more annoyed.

 

“The red--!” Owen gave an incredulous look in response. “Curt, cutting the red one is going to _detonate_ it.”

 

Curt faltered a bit at that remark. Still, he attempted to remain resolute. He waved a hand dismissively, as though he could just make Owen dissipate like a puff of smoke.

“Oh, what do you know?” he challenged, “You’re dead.”

 

“And still more intelligent than you. I think that says more about you than it does me.” Owen smirked.

 

Curt grimaced. This was stressful enough without a vengeful ghost -- _hallucination,_ he reminded himself, _not ghost_ \-- judging him and making snappy remarks.

 

Owen kept pushing, now crouching down himself to meet his former partner’s level. “Look, even you have to admit, love, that you don’t exactly have the best track record with _explosives.”_

 

“Low blow.” Curt winced.

 

Owen merely nodded. _Yes, he knew exactly what he was doing, thank you for noticing._

 

Curt looked back down at the bomb.

Less than 30 seconds left.

“Shit!” he exclaimed. How the hell did he let himself get so distracted again?

“Shit , shit, shit...” he continued repeating under his breath.

 

He had to act now.

He had to act,

Now.

 

He clutched the wire cutters again, hovering his hand over the bomb, desperation gnawing at him.

 

20 seconds, and counting down.

 

He moved his hand forward, as if to finally make a move, but drew back in fear before getting too close.

 

He looked up at Owen.

Owen shrugged indifferently.

 

Curt sucked in a tense breath.

 

He cut the blue wire.

 

He immediately flinched back, shielding his face with his arm and screwing his eyes shut, expecting the whole thing to blow up in his face.

 

The countdown timer flickered off silently.

Curt waited a moment, the tension left hanging in the air.

 

Nothing happened.

 

He gained the courage to look back the bomb, resting still, neutralized. He didn’t want to touch it. He decided he’d leave it, and if Cynthia wanted it for evidence, or whatever, she could send some other agent to retrieve it.

He stood up, letting out the breath he’d been holding, trying to ground himself and come down off the adrenaline high.

He dusted himself off with his hands and walked towards the door.

Owen followed.

 

“Told you so.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

The facts are as follows:

1.Owen Carvour is dead.

Curt Mega knows this because he was the one who killed him. You cannot survive being shot in the head at point blank range. He watched the body be removed from the scene. He attended the funeral.

2.Owen Carvour won’t leave Curt the hell alone.

A few days after the horrible event, not long after Curt had finally washed Owen’s blood out of all of his clothes, Owen had started appearing. Half-translucent and fully resentful. He followed Curt _everywhere;_ his presence was constant.

 

The novelty wore off quickly.

 

Curt remembers the first time he’d seen him, waking up in the morning from another restless night of tossing and turning and nightmares replaying what he’d been forced to do.

And as he was opening his eyes, he saw his partner, standing right at the foot of his bed, looking exactly as he did right before --

Well, right before.

 

It wasn’t like his usual flashbacks, the ones that threw him back into a moment from his past. The ones that made him relive tragedies and triumphs, and stab his heart with the memories.

This was just Owen. Just standing there. Staring at him.

 

“O-owen?” he hesitantly whispered. He was acting on pure impulse.

 

“You fucking shot me.” came the response. Owen’s brow was furrowed, almost a stunned expression on his face that carried over into his voice.

 

_Oh. This wasn’t going to be a touching reunion._

 

And since then, Owen was perpetually by Curt’s side, drifting around him, making remarks.

Curt called it a hallucination. _Ghosts aren’t real_ , he reminded himself. He didn’t tell anyone, of course, they’d call him crazy, which in fairness, he probably was. But that might cost him his job, and he just gone through the mortification of asking (read: begging) Cynthia to let him return to the agency. He didn’t know who he was if he wasn’t a spy, he realized, and with Chimera still out there, he needed real resources.

 

Still, having his dead lover floating around didn’t make anything easier.

 

He walked into Cynthia’s office, eager to get this debriefing over with. He’d diffused the bomb, what more was there to talk about? He wasn’t sure he’d be able to answer all the questions she might have.

 

As he entered the room, Cynthia gestured for him to sit down as she finished up her phone call. It was mostly likely with some world leader from some foreign country Curt had never even heard of, but over the years he’d learned enough to know not to ask. Cynthia’s phone calls were top secret, even if she repeatedly took them right in front of him.

 

He took his seat in the chair designated for him. Owen ghosted into the room right behind him, electing to take his seat on the corner of Cynthia’s desk, facing Curt. Just another reminder that only Curt could see Owen. His own personal haunting.

 

Owen would have never been so bold as to pull a stunt like that when he was alive. Curt remembered many times when there were _two_ chairs set out in Cynthia’s office and it’d be the both of them getting chewed out by Cynthia for something or another going wrong on a mission

 

Owen tried once, to interrupt her, and mention that he was with MI6, and thus, technically, Cynthia didn’t have any jurisdiction over his actions.

Curt shuddered involuntarily at the memory of Cynthia’s face the second Owen had said that.

There’s a reason he only tried it once.

 

But it seemed the afterlife gave you some kind of bravery. Or maybe it just didn’t matter what you did if no one could see or hear you.

Owen stared at Curt, looking impossibly smug with his grimly satisfied smile on his face. Like the cat that ate the damn canary.

Curt stared back, not realizing how much his facial expression telegraphed how perplexed he was.

 

The sound of Cynthia’s phone slamming back into its cradle snapped Curt out of it, and he turned sheepishly to face Cynthia.

 

“Cut this one pretty _fucking_ close, didn’t ya, Mega?” She asked sharply.

 

“Well,” Curt began nervously.

 

“ _Still,”_ Cynthia cut him off, “for a first day back, it’s not the worst it could have been.”

 

Curt was honestly somewhat taken aback by Cynthia’s kind ( _well, “kind” by Cynthia’s standards)_ remark. Before his debriefing he’d braced for the worst, considering how close of a call it was.

 

Curt’s surprise was not lost on Cynthia. “I mean it.” she said, paging through some of the documentation of the mission report, “A surprisingly few number of unnecessary deaths, minimal expenses, breaking your watch was a shit move, that’s fucking coming out of your paycheck…” she trailed off, looking through more notes for other details to comment on.

 

“You’re going easy on me.” Curt stated bluntly. It wasn’t like Cynthia to be so lenient after a near failure, and he wasn’t sure why. He knew he’d screwed up.

 

Cynthia narrowed her eyes. “Look, Mega, if you don’t want me to be nice, then I won’t be nice.” She spoke in a harsher tone. “I know what happened between you and Owen.”

At that statement, Owen held his middle finger, index finger, and thumb in the shape of a gun, lined it up with his forehead, and tipped his head back, making a sound with his mouth to emulate the gunshot. He smirked.

Curt watched him, disturbed by his actions.

 

Cynthia snapped her fingers to get Curt’s attention. “And I know that it’s been weighing on you. You’re constantly zoning out.”

Curt looked embarrassed at her observation.

“You should be grateful I haven't sent you in for a psych evaluation.” she added sternly.

 

Curt shifted awkwardly in his seat, catching Owen snickering out of the corner of his eye.

 

“You pulled it off this time, but you need to get that in check. It makes me worry about you, and I fucking hate worrying about people.”

 

Curt glanced over at Owen who he found to be leaning back where he sat, dramatically dipping his head back towards Cynthia, hand on his chest like he was about to give a great monologue. “Actually Cynthia, darling,” he began, “ _I_ was the one who really made the decisions this go-round. He,” he gestured with a hand towards Curt, “doesn’t have a damn clue what he’s doing.”

 

Curt silently thanked God that Cynthia couldn’t see or hear Owen. He tried to give Owen a look to tell him to shut up, though he suspected it wouldn’t work.

 

“MEGA!” Cynthia barked, snapping Curt back to the moment. “God, you’re fucking doing it again, dumbass! Right after I _just_ told you to knock that shit off!”

 

“Sorry, I--”

 

Cynthia interrupted him, beginning to rant, infuriated. “I call you in for your debriefing, I figure: _maybe I’ll be nice to the guy, he just shot his best friend in the head.”_

“More than friends.” Owen remarked with a wink, talking over her.

Curt resisted the urge to shush him.

"But you have to go and call me on it! So, fuck it, I say: _fine, you want some notes? Stop spacing out all the time._ And what do you do?”

 

“...I space out?”

 

" _You space out!_ Right in front of me!” She dropped her head into her hands, sighing so deeply that it turned into an exasperated groan at the end.

She lifted her head and looked at Curt. “What the fuck am I gonna do with you?” She shook her head. “You got _lucky_ this time.”

 

Curt nodded, terrified of what consequences Cynthia might impose. It was Owen’s fault anyway, but it wasn’t as though he could just say that.

 

“I can’t give you mandatory time off because you _just_ got back!” she continued, exasperated, “I can’t assign you a partner because look what happened to the last one!”

Owen gestured with his hand as if in bitter agreement. “That’s fair.” he stated simply.

She caught Curt cringing at her remark, and tried to backtrack slightly, sighing again. “You know what I mean.” She slumped back in her chair. This was too fucking much for one day, and she found herself itching for a cigarette. She plucked one off her desk and held it between two fingers, before jabbing it at Curt in a commanding point. “Just…” she steeled her expression and looked at him intently, “don’t fuck up and die on me, alright? Can you manage that?”

 

“Can you, Curt?” Owen echoed, mockingly.

 

“I can.” Curt was adamant. He straightened his posture, trying to seem convincing.

 

Cynthia eyed him skeptically, as if scrutinizing every microscopic movement he made for an indication that he might slip up. Seemingly satisfied, she spoke again, “Good, then. This mission went relatively well, all things considered, but I don’t want to see you relying on luck to get you through. Do whatever you need to do to get yourself focused. Eyes on the prize, remember?”

 

“Eyes on the prize.” Curt repeated softly.

 

“That’s what I like to hear. Now get out of my office. You’re not the only moron I have to deal with today.” Cynthia snapped, pointing to the door.

 

Curt look his leave, noting, as always, Owen trailing behind him.

 

When they were midway down the hallway Owen asked, “So, where to now?”

Curt glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, or within range to hear him. Finding himself alone, he replied, “Home.”

 

Owen nodded, keeping pace at Curt’s side as he exited the building. “Any plans for the rest of the day?”

 

Curt considered his question briefly. “I don’t know. Sleep, maybe.”

 

“You need it.” Owen replied, continuing to trail Curt. He was mostly silent for the rest of the journey back, which Curt was thankful for.

Curt finally reached his apartment and unlocked the door, stepping through, He slammed the door behind him, which Owen phased through effortlessly, and collapsed on his couch.

 

“You’re a wreck.” Owen observed. “Cynthia’s right, you’re unfocused.”

 

Curt was tired and lacked his usual resolve not to fight back. “Yeah? And who’s fault is that?” he countered.

 

Owen picked up on his point, “Well, I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t shot me.”

 

“Well I wouldn’t have shot you if you hadn’t joined Chimera!” Curt raised his volume, standing up to meet Owen’s stance.

 

“Well, I wouldn’t have done that if you hadn’t _left me for dead!_ ” Owen raised his volume to match, showing a reflection of the rage Curt had seen on that fateful night, when he’d last seen Owen alive.

 

“You know I didn’t --” Curt cut himself off, realizing the absurdity of the situation. _You are having a shouting match with a dead man. Keep it together, Mega! You’re going insane._

He took several deep breaths, trying to ground himself in the moment. He fell back down onto his couch with an unceremonious “whump” sound.

Owen’s eyes bored into him. He extended his arm slowly, almost resembling “The Creation of Adam”, a careful and deliberate movement. He held his hand out as if he had the intention of cupping Curt’s cheek, but made no further movement, no contact.

 

It took all of Curt’s willpower not to try and lean into it. Oh god, the amount of time he’d spent holding that hand, having that hand around him, feeling that hand reaching for him to pull him out of harm’s way. It was a struggle to keep himself from breaking down and melting, trying to reclaim that touch he’d lost four years ago.

But something deep in his chest reminded him that Owen wasn’t really there. And if he tried to feel him, and couldn’t, it’d hurt much worse than if he had never tried at all.

So, he kept his eyes forward, not breaking eye contact with Owen, and stiffening his body, not letting any signs of want become visible.

 

Owen gave him a look that Curt couldn’t decipher. It seemed that it could just as easily be sympathy as it could be contempt. It seemed to contain equal amounts pity and condescension.

“Get some sleep, love.” Owen said, in a low tone of voice, “You look tense.”

 

And that night Curt tried, really, really, honest to God, tried to get some sleep. It’s just hard to get rest when you’re already anticipating the nightmare. And it’s even harder when you can’t help but feel like you’re being watched.

 

But he really did try.


	3. Chapter 3

Sunlight crept in through the slits in his window blinds and Curt woke up after decidedly not enough sleep with a promise on his mind. He blinked his bleary eyes a few times, trying to force himself awake and alert enough to get out of bed. His gaze met Owen’s disapproving stare, and he squinted, trying to see through him, ignore his presence and look at the wall behind him. Having no luck, he sighed, threw his comforter off of his body, stretched his arms, and got up to trudge to the kitchen.

 

Owen gave a condescending look as Curt walked through the doorway. “ _Good morning_.” he said sardonically. Curt grit his teeth to force back a reply, reminding himself of his resolution as he walked towards the kitchen. _Do not indulge this delusion any further. Owen is not here. Do not talk to him._

Owen huffed indignantly at Curt ignoring him, and watched as he reached his kitchen and started making himself a coffee.

 

“Honestly, Curt, you can’t even offer and old lover a ‘good morning’?” Owen questioned.

 

Curt didn’t reply, instead focusing himself on the paper filters and coffee grounds.

 

“Are you actually not going to speak to me at all?”

 

Again, no response, just the sound of kitchen utensils shifting.

 

“Curt, seriously, I need a silent treatment like I need a hole in the head.”

 

Curt, yet again, gave no verbal response, but winced slightly before groaning and returning to his machinations with the coffee pot.

 

“Come on, that was funny!”

 

Curt tried not to look at Owen, instead keeping his head down and pouring his coffee into a mug, opting for a rare plain white one from his cabinet, rather than one of the numerous tacky souvenir mugs he’d picked up over the years of his travel. He took a sip of the drink.

 

Owen raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you take your coffee black? I’ve see you utterly murder them with cream and sugar as long as I’ve known you.”

Curt fumbled around for a discarded flask of whiskey, grabbed it and opened it haphazardly, before turning it over and emptying nearly the entire thing into the mug.

 

“Ah.” Owen nodded in recognition.

 

Curt took a larger swig from the mug before grimacing at the taste of it and setting it back down.

 

“We’re back to this, are we? You know Cynthia isn’t going to give you another assignment if you demonstrate that you’re unreliable.”

 

Curt kept his back turned to Owen.

 

“I, personally, consider getting drunk first thing in the morning to be something that makes someone unreliable.”

 

Curt picked up the mug again, feeling it shake slightly in his hand, sloshing his ungodly concoction of caffeine and alcohol around.

 

“But perhaps Cynthia will be more _forgiving._ ” he said sarcastically.

 

He dropped the mug again, cringing at the sound of ceramic clattering against his counter top. He turned to look at Owen, unamused.

 

Owen held up his hands in a mock-placating gesture. “Do what you like, Curt. Don’t let me stop you.”

 

Curt could tell he didn’t mean it. Even still, he resolved himself to yet again taking Owen’s advice.

 

He spent the rest of the day trying to ignore Owen’s attempts to goad him into replying. He was stubborn by nature, and was certain that if he could just get through a whole day without saying a word to Owen then this whole fantasy his mind had created would crumble. He simply had to refuse to give into it. But, just like old times, Owen was nothing if not persistent, and he knew every possible way to push Curt’s buttons. Curt could bite his tongue and keep himself quiet, but that didn’t mean Owen would also comply. No, Curt realized the only thing he could do would be to drown Owen out.

Those are the circumstances which led to what Curt considered to be a very good idea. An idea that started with multiple large, full bottles of whiskey and various other spirits, and ended with a multitude of empty glasses orderlessly strewn across his coffee table.

 

“Don’t tell me you actually plan on getting drunk now? It’s barely evening.” Owen had said, as he watched Curt silently pour his first shot.

 

“Curt. That’s enough.” he said, voice rough and serious, glowering as Curt set another empty glass on the table, having gone through several already.

 

“How about you call this the last one, hm?” he had tried to reason, over the clink of yet another glass against the wood of the table.

 

Owen hung his head. “This is just sad now, Curt. I don’t want to watch this.”

Curt bit back a reply of “ _Then look away._ ” as he downed the rest of his drink.

Curt eyed another glass, and Owen moved to sit next to him on the couch. Curt clumsily reached for another bottle, but stopped just short as Owen spoke.

 

“You know, I seem to remember a night in, well, I believe it was Paris.” His voice was low and coaxing. He turned to Curt, gesturing, “Do you recall? Paris?” when Curt merely clenched his jaw silently, Owen turned back to face forward, “I don’t know why I bother.” he grumbled. He made a rolling gesture with his hand. “Anyway, it _was_ in Paris, we were there on a mission, and I had just saved your life. I’m sure you remember the story, armed guards and all that.” he trailed off slightly, as if reliving the moment in his memory, “-and I saved your life.” he got back to his point, “And we had just gotten back to the hotel room, and I had just intended on cleaning my gun and going to bed, but as soon as the door closed, you pushed me against the wall. You literally _pushed_ me.” Owen extended his arms to mimic the motion. “With those muscular arms of yours…” he trailed off again, before awkwardly coughing “Ahem. _Anyway_ , you pushed me against the wall, and you sort of held me there with one arm and looked right into my eyes. And I still remember what you said. You said: ‘Owen, I wish I could have you by my side for the rest of my life.’” he sighed. “Do you remember that?” He shrugged. “It seems to me that now you have that opportunity. And you’re squandering it.”

 

Curt dropped his head limply, his whole body sagging, drunk and tired and sad. He placed his head in his hands for a moment before looking back up. “You-” his voice sounded slightly weak, having gone all day with no usage. Still, Owen perked his head up and turned to him. Curt sighed, continuing. “You said: ‘I want that too. I want to be there to protect you.’”

 

Owen smiled a little. “And you said: ‘Hey, I save you just as much as you save me.’” he jokingly imitated Curt's defensive tone.

 

Curt returned the grin, goofy and lopsided, as he was truly under the influence. He gave a poor impression of Owen's accent, made worse by his drunkenness, “And you said: “Actually, tonight makes it three to four…”

 

“...But who’s counting?” they finished together.

Curt felt laughter bubbling up from his chest. He shook his head, realizing that he’d just failed his promise to himself, but continued giggling all the same as he reached for one of the bottles.

 

Owen shot him a look and Curt met his gaze.

“Don’t worry, babe, I’m just cleaning up a little, that’s all.” he slurred. “I know my limit.”

 

Owen furrowed his brow. “I’ve known you a long time, Curt. I know your limit just as well. You’ve gone _over_ it.”

 

Curt flashed him a toothy grin.

And then, what he had meant to say was “Exactly!”, but what he said was some unintelligible gibberish that vaguely resembled the word.

He then fell back against his couch and passed out.

 

As his eyes shut, he could have sworn he caught a glimpse of something on Owen’s face resembling shock, and maybe concern.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: vomiting, mild gore

“I certainly hope you’re proud of yourself.”

 

Curt languidly opened his eyes to meet Owen’s frown with a tired smile. “You know what? I think I am. That’s the best sleep I’ve had in days.”

 

Owen exhaled a sharp breath, an action that Curt almost could have found funny. _Dead and still breathing._ But he was distracted by the soreness in his limbs from sleeping awkwardly on his cramped couch. He groaned as he forced himself upright and stretched, preexisting long-healed injuries awakened and aching. His head was killing him, and the various flavors of physical pain swirling kept his focus away from managing his mouth, filter of politeness lowered like the gates of Troy. “And you know what else? You--”

He interrupted himself, by gagging. _Damn_ . He’d always prided himself on being able to hold his liquor, but intentionally driving himself to pass out had unforeseen consequences, apparently. _Maybe this was a bad idea._ His stomach flipped again and he got up and rushed to the bathroom.

 

He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, retching. His stomach evacuated itself fairly quickly, but left him dry heaving embarrassingly for longer than he’d ever want to admit. He turned his head to look over at Owen, who’d apparently followed him yet again, although he hadn’t noticed in his hurry. He grimaced. _“Stop staring at me.”_

 

Owen looked miffed and a little disgusted. “I didn’t ask to be here.” he shot Curt a look, “Honestly, what would you rather I do?”

 

“Go away.” Curt replied through gritted teeth.

 

Owen actually looked offended.

 

Curt, undeterred, continued to stare him down, still nauseous, but trying to ground himself.

 

Owen shook his head. “I honestly thought we had made a breakthrough last night. Reminiscing about Paris, just like old times. Why, it was almost romantic.” He sighed, exaggeratedly. “I thought, at least, that you’d finally agreed with me on something.” he tilted his head. “Although, it occurs to me now that, considering just how much you drank, you may not remember it at all…” he trailed off.

 

“Oh no, I remember it.” Curt spoke up. “Having Owen by my side for the rest of my life? Yeah, that’s what I want.” His tone was bitter; it paired perfectly with his disheveled appearance to make it clear that he wasn’t in any kind of good mood.

 

Owen made and up and down gesture towards himself with both hands, giving an expression that wordlessly conveyed his message: _“Well, here I am.”_

 

“But you, heh,” Curt let out a breathy, humorless laugh, “you’re not Owen.” he jabbed a finger towards the specter. “You’re just a hallucination. You’re a nightmare that eventually I’m going to wake up from.”

 

Owen blinked, taken aback.

Still, Curt continued to push. “And you know how I know that? Because Owen _died.”_

 

Owen clicked his tongue. “Well…”

 

Curt cut him off, voice hoarse from his burning throat and rough from his anger.

“Owen died.”

“In a Russian weapons facility.”

“In 1957.” he finished.

 

Owen tried to correct him. “Nineteen sixty--”

 

 _“I know what I said.”_ Curt practically spat at him. “ _You’re_ not Owen. And it wasn’t Owen I shot that night either. The Owen I knew? _My_ Owen? The Owen I thought I could live the rest of my life with? I didn’t see even a shred of him that night. I didn’t--” He took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, physically dizzy and emotionally wrecked, “The man I loved was long dead.”

 

“So that’s how you feel?” Owen asked, coldly.

 

Under any other circumstances, Curt would know to take that as a warning. He’d know that Owen’s tone was giving him a last chance to back off before things got ugly. Curt could read the signs Owen was conveying clear as day. He was just too hungover to care. He pressed.

“That’s what I know. It’s the truth isn’t it?”

 

Curt could see the rage growing on Owen’s face.

“You don’t have any idea who I am. Or who I was. Or who I supposedly ‘became’. You seem to have fabricated some version of me in your mind that I’m not sure ever existed.” Owen’s voice raised in volume, anger evident every word.

 

Curt’s head was already throbbing from the hangover, and Owen was only making it worse. He screwed his eyes shut, turning away.

“Shut up.”

 

“You killed me twice, Curt. You killed me twice and neither time did I even get to _die.”_

 

“Shut up.” Curt repeated, too drained to think of a better comeback. He just wanted the pounding in his head to stop. He just wanted all of this to _stop._

 

“I _loved_ you!” Owen’s voice sounded strained. He choked out the word “loved” like he was confessing to a crime. “And you left me for dead. And even that wasn’t enough for you. You had to kill me yourself.

And now, I’m stuck here with _you!_ Christ, would you just put me out of my goddamn misery!” he shouted.

 

Curt winced again. “Shut _up._ My head hurts.”

 

Owen wasn’t finished. “You don’t--”

 

Curt turned his head towards Owen to tell him to his face to shut up, but what he saw made his eyes go wide, and every coherent thought immediately left his mind. “Oh God. Oh G-” he gagged again, feeling all his nausea return at full force. _“Holy shit.”_

 

There was a wound on Owen’s forehead. Small. Circular. Open. Raw. Bloody. A trickle of blood ran down his face, just dripping. 

 _"Bullet hole.”_ Curt’s brain supplied, as he turned his head back of the toilet bowl, retching again at the disturbing sight twisting his already sensitive stomach.

Even still, he couldn’t help but watch Owen out of the corner of his eye.

He didn’t seem to be in pain. If anything, he seemed confused, brows furrowed eerily similar to the first morning he’d appeared. Curt watched with unfortunately rapt attention as Owen raised his hand up and dabbed at the stream of red running down over the bridge of his nose with his middle finger. He pulled his hand back and examined the splotch of blood, physically shuddering at the sight of it.

He shot Curt a look, lips curled, before moving his hand over his forehead to cover the wound. He looked almost...embarrassed, Curt thought. Like he’d been caught in some sort of social faux pas and not with a _goddamn bullet hole in his head._

 

Owen side-eyed Curt. He nearly cracked a smile, but his voice was venomous as he spoke. “What were you saying about having a headache?”

 

Curt almost fought back. He got as far as opening his mouth to protest.

 

But then the phone rang.

 

Curt made an almost whiny sound of displeasure and forced himself to stand up. He was groggy and irritated and still sick and sore, he had almost resigned himself to spending the rest of his days on the floor, leaned up against his toilet, listening to Owen chew him out.

 

But the phone was still ringing, and whether he wanted to or not, he had to answer it.

 

Maybe it was Cynthia.

Oh God, Curt hoped it wasn’t Cynthia. As much as he wanted a new assignment, he knew she’d be able to tell how trashed he was the second he picked up the phone. _No,_ he reasoned with himself, _it’s not Cynthia_. She would have just used the watch if she needed him.

 

He took a last glance at Owen, before trudging to the phone.

 

“You’re not real.” he said, finally.

 

Owen scoffed resentfully, rolling his eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

 

And Curt could have said something more. But instead he focused himself on the phone, finally walking to it and picking it up.

 

He hesitated slightly before answering, no idea what to expect on the other end. “Hello?”

 

“Curt?”

 

“Tatiana?!” It felt good to feel a familiar voice after the struggle of the morning.

 

“Yes!” she sounded cheerful, excited even. It was too much energy for Curt to handle right now, but he was grateful to know she was doing alright.

“Don’t get too excited but I will be in the US for a short while. I am...not staying long” she explained, “but I was hoping to see you again.”

 

“Yeah, that’s sounds…” he trailed off, watching Owen stalk into the room. He seemed almost a beat behind. His wound was missing, as though it had never been there at all. He looked perfectly intact again. At least physically. Curt could tell from the way he moved, like an apex predator, that things were still damaged.

Owen leaned against the far wall and glared at him. His eyes were dark and focused. Curt could practically feel the heat of the rage churning inside of him. He kept his eyes fixated on Curt like a rifle’s scope, scowling.

If looks could kill, Curt and Owen would have something more in common.

 

“Curt? Are you there?”

 

 _Right, shit, the phone call!_ Curt thought.

 

“Yeah!” he blurted too abruptly. “Yeah, I’m here!” he looked up nervously at Owen.

Owen’s stare didn’t waver.

 

“So, about meeting up?” Tatiana asked again.

 

“Right, yeah, of course.” Curt tried to get his bearings, wrenching his gaze away from Owen, “Of course.” he said, more confidently, “I would love that.”

 

“Great!” he could practically hear her smiling through the phone. “I will call you again when I have more details.”

 

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

When the call ended, he dropped the phone back onto its receiver and looked back up at Owen.

Owen stared daggers at him. It was a level of fury Curt had seen on Owen’s face only a few times.

 

A cold wave of dread washed over Curt as he realized that it didn’t matter if Owen was a ghost, or if he was a hallucination, or if he was anything else.

 

Because what he was now was _pissed off._


	5. Chapter 5

Curt could tell when Owen got an idea. There was a shift in his eyes like the first winds of a hurricane. Like the first dark clouds rolling in before a thunderstorm. A natural disaster brewing with every blink.

 

Since the argument, since the phone call, Owen had been eerily silent. Skulking and stalking around the room. Pacing. 

The silence, while it allowed Curt to focus on his own thoughts for once, was not comforting. Predator animals are silent before they pounce. Snipers are silent before they fire. Owen was silent before he got an idea.

 

Curt had tried to rationalize it to himself, as he went about his daily business. Not only was Owen _not_ real, even if he _was,_ he wouldn’t be able to hurt him in any way. He’d proven already that he couldn’t touch anything, not even Curt himself, so there was no way for him to cause physical damage. All he could do was talk.

What Curt soon realized that he had failed to consider is that when all one can do is talk, one _talks._

 

It was late in the day, almost evening, and the silence had grown unbearable. Curt had been desperate for this silence, yearning for it since Owen’s ghost first appeared, but now it suddenly felt unwanted. Unnerving. An unsaid, but understood threat.

 

He was on edge all day. Owen still followed him, but never even attempted to catch his attention, just stared at him, as if lost in thought. Every time Curt caught sight of him in his peripheral vision, he jumped. He tried to blame it on the lack of sleep, and the nerves about seeing Tatiana again, but as much he tried to deny it, the fear grew from Owen’s presence.

 

The room seemed to get impossibly cold when Owen finally made eye contact with him. Although perhaps it was just the shiver that ran down Curt’s spine as Owen stood in front of him, his height advantage magnified to an intimidating degree as Curt was seated on the couch and Owen loomed over him. There was a distinct contempt in his expression when he looked down at Curt. But what was most terrifying was the almost smile that Curt could see playing at his lips. A sick sense of pride that was evident in his expression no matter how he tried to mask it with anger. Curt recognized it with a frightening familiarity. Owen was all for the dramatics. And he’d just given himself the spotlight.

Curt knew that Owen knew that he had his full undivided attention. 

 

“January.”

 

Owen’s voice was low and even. Commanding, but not loud. Deadly.

 

“Wha--” Curt tried to question, before being cut off. This was Owen’s moment, clearly, and he wasn’t about to be heckled. 

 

“1950.” 

 

Owen continued. 

 

Curt furrowed his brow in confusion, before his eyes grew wide with recognition and he snapped his head up. Immediately his mind was racing. _No he’s not-- he isn’t --_

 

“London.”

 

_He was._

 

“Reconnaissance.” he tipped his head, before qualifying his statement, “Mostly.” he continued. “There was the apprehension of a suspect at the end of it, the sixth day of the mission, a process that resulted in exactly seven kills between the two of us.”

 

Curt’s throat felt hoarse immediately, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t find the willpower to speak, leaving him to open his mouth slightly but produce no words, looking on at Owen with not quite shock, but trepidation.

 

“The second day of the mission was a stakeout, during which you confessed to me that it was your first time working with an international agent.”

 

Curt could feel his heart pounding as Owen recounted the events.

 

“But you said that I, and I’m quoting you here, ‘made you feel safe’. So you weren’t ‘as nervous’ as you had been.” Owen made literal air-quotes to punctuate Curt’s words, malice evident in the cavalier sarcasm of the action. “And as long as we’re making admissions, _I’ll_ admit that hearing that really affected me. I laughed in the moment, I’m sure you recall, but it was because I was so surprised. You had such a reputation of being a hot-shot lone-wolf type, if you’ll excuse the triteness of it all, I’d hardly expected to hear an admission of fear from you, and especially to hear that I’d eased it. As I’m sure you’re aware, _neither_ of our agencies expected us to work well together. In fact, I remember you, on the last day of the mission, turning to me with a smile and saying, ‘we sure showed them, huh?’”

 

Curt continued to stare, dumbstruck.

 

“You know one of my colleagues told me once that we’d been so expected to get along like cats and dogs that he was certain that one of us would have killed the other by the time the mission was through.” 

Owen tipped his head downwards slightly, darkening his expression, a level of seriousness and venom present in his voice as he spoke.

_“We sure showed them, huh?”_

 

Finally, Curt managed to force a word out. 

“Owen.”

It was all he could think to say, just his partner’s name, scratching its way out of his throat with confusion and wistfulness. He still hadn’t figured out Owen’s plan. What did he hope to gain by recounting their first mission together? What was the benefit?

 

“February. The first of February.” he spoke up again.

 

 _“Owen.”_  He repeated, with more force and desperation, trying to get any kind of reaction or explanation out of him.

 

“Prague.”

 

The next sound that escaped Curt's throat was a dry sob. Evidently words had failed him once more. 

However, while he was unable to vocalize it, his thoughts caught up to Owen’s intentions.

_Our first mission...our second...Oh God._

 

“That one ran long. Over two weeks.”

 

_He’s not going to go through...all of them...is he?_

 

“I didn’t think anything of it at the time,”

 

_Over a hundred missions._

_He wouldn’t._

 

“But that was our first Valentine’s day together.”

 

_He would._

 

Curt mustered as much resilience in his voice as he could, trying hard to sound convincing. “Owen, stop.”

 

Owen spared just a moment to glare at him, as if in challenge, before continuing. “Anyway, we were sent to steal multiple classified documents from multiple compounds. Ten kills each, I believe.”

 

The rest of the night became an awful blur of dates and locations and mission details. It all melted together, becoming a sludge of words that Curt could only manage to pick a few specific details out of.

 

At some point during it all, Tatiana called again. He was in such a daze, and Owen didn’t let up. He barely managed to get the details of their planned rendezvous written down.

 

A tryst in Rome.

 

A first kiss.

 

1952, Copenhagen.

 

Autumn. Moscow. 3 kills.

 

Madrid. Extraction. 

 

“And you turned to me and said ‘I love you.’ It was the first time you said it to me.”

 

“Following a series of interrogations…”

 

  1. August. 15 kills at least.



 

5 kills exactly with a six-chamber revolver. “Impressive.”

 

“The bomb went off and neither of us were even in the right building.”

 

Frankfurt. “And with a poison dart, no less.”

 

Washington D.C. “Bleeding.” “I held your hand.”

 

It became harder and harder to separate the mission details from the anecdotes about their own relationship.

 

“Too soon.”

 

“Misplaced.”

 

“Blew up in our faces.”

 

“Your fault, but I didn’t have the heart to tell you at the time.”

 

“Absolutely necessary.”

 

“The only possible solution.”

 

“God, the best I’d ever seen.”

 

“Inevitable, more than anything.”

 

Curt didn’t get any sleep that night. Evidently, ghosts don’t sleep. Hallucinations don’t sleep. And Owen kept talking. 

 

It was around 3 AM that Curt’s thoughts started to sound like a broken record.

_Fuck Owen. Fuck Owen and fuck his stupid fucking photographic memory. Fuck his grudges. Fuck his details. Fuck everything._

 

Owen’s memory had always been such an asset on missions. His eye for detail and ability to bring it up later as if it were still in front of him had always been something Curt admired. And he never forgot an anniversary.

Curt lacked that steel trap of mind that Owen had. Lacked his focus, lacked his powers of recollection. 

If Owen were in a good mood, he’d tell Curt that he made up for it with his physical strength and dedication. He thought less with his head, but more with his heart. A sort of intelligence in its own right.

If Owen were in a bad mood, he’d tell Curt that if he wanted his mind to be sharper, maybe he should stop drinking so much.

 

But now Owen wasn’t in any mood but blind anger. And that beautiful unstoppable memory of his was being aimed like a bullet directly at Curt.

 

It wore Curt down. Emotionally. Physically.

 

Tatiana noticed. Of course she noticed. 

 

When Curt had met her at the place they’d arranged (a small cafe, not more than a few blocks from his apartment), in lieu of a greeting, she opened with “You look terrible.”

 

“Gee thanks.” Curt snorted. 

 

(Owen was still recounting the mission details of some time spent in Geneva.)

 

“Sorry for the rudeness but,” She paused. “you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

 

(About how Owen had picked up Curt’s gun after he dropped it.)

 

“Something like that…” Curt mumbled.

 

(It was nonstop. _Nonstop._ The constant... the _noise._ Didn’t he ever get tired?)

 

“After getting back into the business, hm?” she eyes him skeptically. “This job may not be healthy for you.”

 

(It was so hard to focus. So hard. Curt was trying. Trying to focus on her. But Owen kept _talking.)_

 

“Easy for you to say.” Curt gave a halfhearted laugh. “You got out.”

 

(Owen had moved onto another mission. Curt missed the location. Owen was describing breaking into a mansion.)

 

Tatiana only nodded.

 

(Owen started a sentence with “When we returned to the hotel...” Curt couldn’t tell if he was raising his voice or if his attempts to block him out were failing more and more.)

 

“How is it, by the way?” Curt anxiously drummed his fingers on the table, desperate to ground himself without letting his facade crack. “Being out?”

 

(Owen made a hand gesture to emulate a stab. Or no, wait, a repeated stabbing. Or no, wait…)

 

“It’s good.” Tatiana looked at him seriously. Concern and urging were clear in her lowered brows. “It’s _peaceful.”_

 

(Five kills. That’s funny. Curt thought there’d been six. But. Dammit. Focus.)

 

“Mhm.” It was all Curt could manage to vocalize. 

 

(Owen’s expression looked impossibly darker. Curt was terrified.)

 

Tatiana sighed. “I worry about you."

 

(“1956.”)

 

Curt grit his teeth.

 

She continued. “You had the chance to be done with it all and you went back in. I don’t understand.”

 

(“Spring.”)

 

“Maybe I’ve just been appreciating life outside of spying. You know I never wanted that life.”

 

(“Berlin.”)

 

“But I can see clearly that you’re not alright. And after what happened with Owen…”

 

(“We set our record.”)

 

“I think you should get out too.”

 

(“Six minutes.”)

 

 _“Shut the fuck up!”_ Curt blurted suddenly. 

He snapped. He broke. He couldn’t take it anymore. It had been building, and building, and finally it burst.

 

(Owen was silent.)

 

_“Excuse me?”_

Tatiana looked utterly taken aback.

 

(Owen looked at Curt with wide eyes. He looked… startled.)

 

Curt groaned, ducking his head down in shame. “Not you.” he started, before realizing he didn't have a rational explanation for his outburst. “I’m so sorry. I’ve just. I’ve been so on-edge.” he sighed. “You’re right about me not sleeping. And you’re probably right about this not being good for me. But I just… right now I just feel... haunted. And I don’t think I see a way out of it.”  

 

Tatiana reached across the table, giving Curt’s arm a hesitant but comforting pat. “I understand.” She tried to give a sympathetic smile. “What you need is to get some rest.” she moved to stand up from the table. “I am staying for a little while longer. Maybe we can see each other again before I go.”

 

(Owen was still silent.)

 

“Yeah, maybe.” Curt was still trying to get his bearings.

 

The seriousness returned to her tone briefly. “Think about what I’ve said, please? Just think about it.”

 

Curt swallowed hoarsely. “I will.”

 

And with that, she took her leave, leaving Curt sitting alone at a table for two. As much as he would hate to admit it, for half a second, he considered inviting Owen to sit down.

But then he thought better of it, and got up to exit as well.

Owen kept quiet for the journey back. It was, not quite refreshing, but better than the overwhelming constant sounds. 

 

When he was back home, Curt felt his entire self collapse. He exhaled a shaky breath. “We need to talk.”

 

“Oh, those dreaded words.” Owen joked, strolling into the room, before turning and sardonically continuing, “But _wait_ , I thought you said I wasn’t real?”

 

“Don’t be a dick.” Curt barked. When Owen raised his eyebrows, he backpedaled. “I’m trying here, alright?” he sat down on his couch.

 

“Alright then, let’s talk.” Owen sat down next to him and Curt cringed at being unable to feel his weight shift the cushions.

 

Curt could already feel tears forming. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Is it…” he tried to compose himself, “Is it really you?”

 

“It’s really me.” Owen replied softly.

 

Yet again, Curt’s throat felt uncomfortably dry. He shook his head. “How am I supposed to believe that?”

 

Owen shrugged. “Do you want to?”

 

 _“Don’t do that to me.”_ Curt breathed. “Please, Owen, I can’t.” He rubbed at his eyes but didn’t cry.

 

Owen paused, before letting his eyes fall shut and nodding in acceptance. 

 

“Is there,” Curt searched for the words, “some way you could prove it to me? And then we could go from there. But I, _oh my God I sound crazy,_ I could believe it, if you proved it.”

 

“You’re not crazy.” Owen retorted, though Curt didn’t find it all that comforting. He hesitated before he spoke again. “How could I prove it?”

 

“I don’t know.” Curt let out a humorless laugh. “Knock a lamp over or something.”

 

The whole thing sounded ridiculous to Curt, and he felt like an idiot saying it out loud.

 

He watched as Owen looked down at his hand, and then over at the lamp that rested on Curt’s end table, and then back at Curt himself.

 

And then back at his hand.

 

And then back at the lamp.

 

And then he reached that hand out and pushed.

 

The lamp didn’t shatter.

Because the lamp didn’t fall.

Because the lamp didn’t even tip.

 

But it wobbled.

 

Owen whipped his head around to look back at Curt, eyes wide. “It wobbled.”

 

Curt, with an equally surprised expression met his gaze. _“It wobbled.”_

 

Curt started fully laughing. He couldn’t help it. Just out of pure confusion, and shock, and fear, and excitement, and every possible emotion he couldn't quite describe, he started laughing.

 _“What the fuck?”_ he whispered.

 

When he looked at Owen, he found his partner apparently attempting to stifle laughter of his own, surprised by his own abilities.

“So,” Owen started, “do you believe that I’m real?”

 

Curt stared at him. 

 

He said the only thing he could think to say.

 

_“Owen?”_

 

Owen nodded slowly.

 

Curt kept staring at him. 

 

"You really broke me today, do you realize that?"

 

Owen looked almost sheepish as he waved his hand. _"...personal history."_ he muttered.

 

One last laugh choked its way out of Curt.

 

And then the tears started to fall.


	6. Chapter 6

There was a time when Curt crying in front of Owen meant that Owen’s arms would be around him in an instant. He’d curl against his chest and sob freely, shaking as Owen held him tightly. A grounding force. If Curt needed to, he’d close his eyes and listen to Owen’s heartbeat and it made him feel like at least one thing was certain in this world. Owen had this habit of resting his head on top of Curt’s as if he could wrap his body around him in exactly the right way and shield him from his own sadness. He whispered comforting words, many of which Curt couldn’t even hear over his own sobs, but it was as much for Owen’s own sake as it was for Curt’s. There wasn’t anything in the world that comforted Curt more than his partner’s embrace, and there was a time when that was always available when he needed it.

 

But now Owen sat tensely, back rigid, hands twitching. Semi-translucent.

 

It wasn’t that Curt had expected Owen to have held him again. He wasn’t sure it would even be possible. He’d barely moved the lamp and he’d never even tried to touch Curt. And killing someone doesn’t often make them eager to console you.

About their own death, no less.

 

So it wasn’t that Curt had expected it.

But it would have been nice.

 

Curt’s sobs eventually faded into sniffles as he tried to calm himself down. 

“You’re dead… but you’re here.”

 

“I believe that’s what a ghost is, yes.” Owen agreed, without relaxing his posture even slightly.

 

“Good grief, don’t say that. This isn’t one of your goddamn Dickens novels.” Curt blurted. “This is-- This is real life.” he took a deep breath, “It’s just… It’s really _you.”_

 

Curt couldn’t bear to look at Owen, so instead he stared down at his own hands, as if studying them. As if he had willed Owen back to him somehow through his own guilt and longing. As if he’d been the one to push the lamp.

 

Owen broke the quietness that'd fallen by speaking up. 

“I imagine you have questions.”

 

Curt continued to stare at his hands, head down. He stayed silent for a few moments, before asking, voice almost a whisper, “Did you miss me?”

 

 _“What?”_ Owen turned to look at him.

 

“Four years.” Curt started, nearly spitting the words through gritted teeth, “There were four years when I thought you were dead, and you were off doing God knows what. At any point during that time, did you miss me?”

 

Owen exhaled, tipping his head back to stare up at the ceiling. _“Jesus_ , Curt. I thought you’d have questions about God, or the afterlife, or some such.”

 

Curt made a face somewhat akin to a wince. “Do you have answers about those things?”

 

Owen hesitated. “Well, no” he shrugged, “but I thought you’d ask.”

 

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence in the room.

 

“Owen?” Curt asked softly, drawing his attention once more.

 

“Yes, Curt?”

 

“Answer the fucking question.”

 

Owen sucked in a breath, keeping his head back. He shuddered, as if attempting to collect himself. “Yes.” he spoke finally. “Yes, God, yes, of course I missed you. All the broken bones and aching burn scars, and all the long nights in cold beds, and lonely tired mornings when every part of me was sore and the first thing I reached for wasn’t a hand, just my gun. I was hurting in every sense and doing it alone. God, of course I missed you, I missed _everything.”_ he shifted. “And I felt sick every time I thought of you. Couldn’t sever it from the memory of being certain that I was about to die and watching you _run._ Thinking about you leaving me and in the same moment, thinking about how much warmer the bed would feel with your arms around me. I guess I was just insane.”

 

Curt was wordless for a few moments, unsure of what to say. He shifted in his seat before talking again. “I missed you too. I’m sure you knew that. Not a damn day went by that I didn’t think about you.”

He took a breath.

“You didn’t come back then.”

Owen dropped his head down in a sharp motion to shoot Curt a scowl.

Undeterred, he continued. “So why are you back now? Why like this?”

 

Owen kept his eyes on Curt, but Curt couldn’t quite read his expression. It felt a lot like being sized up, evaluated. Like being under a microscope. 

He had no idea what Owen could be looking for in his body language, and had a hard enough time accepting that Owen was really himself, conscious and _capable_ of looking, scrutinizing, judging. 

He expected, or perhaps wanted, and on a deeper level, feared, that Owen would expound upon some philosophical reasoning for his return. Some metaphysical connection they shared, some unfinished business on this mortal coil. Some straightforward and, if possible, logical explanation.

 

But once the silence had lifted, and Owen’s face relaxed into a more neutral countenance, all he did was shrug and say “I don’t know.” 

Curt felt a headache approaching and immediately brought his hands to his face. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

 

“I mean I don’t know!” Exasperation was evident in Owen’s voice. Curt always remembered his accent getting a little thicker when he was truly confounded, and now seemed to be no different. “It’s not as though I want to be here! In case it hasn’t occurred to you, this isn’t exactly resting in peace.” he grumbled. 

 

“Well then is there _anything_ I can do for you?” Curt asked, voice strained and desperate.

 

“I’d kill for a cigarette.” Owen replied nonchalantly.

 

“How would you _smoke_ it?!” Curt snapped, lowering his hands from his face in a swift downwards gesture.

 

Owen gave him a sideways glance, pausing before speaking again. “You’ll notice I didn’t ask for a lighter.”

 

Curt froze. Dumbstruck. Speechless. He felt his thoughts putter to a stop like a dying car as he tried to form any kind of words in response. He furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to speak, but found himself unable to do anything but let it hang dumbly and look like he was trying to catch flies, so he shut it again and furrowed his brow even more.

He cast his gaze down, but spared one passing glance at Owen, who seemed unaffected, looking forwards, back straight, one leg crossed over the other, almost regal in posture. He carried himself with what was, in Curt’s opinion, too much pride for a dead man.

 

Curt kept staring down at his coffee table, as if it would give him some kind of help. As though he could decode the secret message hidden in the wood grain and suddenly have all the answers to all the mysteries of the universe. Or at least the solution to his current predicament: his dead, or not quite dead, partner seated beside him. 

 

It was a lot like old times, actually, neither of them having more answers than the other. Owen attempting to play it off as simply being mysterious and not forthcoming, keeping up the act of “giving Curt time to figure it out himself” which Curt eventually realized was just a code Owen used so that he could wait until Curt reached an answer and then act smug when Curt “caught up” even though he’d been sitting there just as clueless. 

It somehow worked for Owen, who could just take on the role of the cryptic intellectual as he pleased, providing cover for his own shortcomings. But it never fit right for Curt, partially because Owen could see right through it (he knew his own act mirrored back at him) and partially because Curt already felt like enough of an over-compensating faker, in his job, and oftentimes, though unfortunate, in his life outside of it. He excelled, however, at the reverse, pretending not to know nearly as much as he did. Apparently, Curt not keeping up in terms of information was _very_ believable.

 

He zoned out staring at that coffee table until his vision blurred slightly. It didn’t provide any answers except for the obvious.

“I need some sleep.” Curt murmured, pushing himself up from the couch to stand. 

Owen trailed behind him, as always. 

 

But as Curt went through his nightly routine he noticed Owen standing closer to him. Within the distance that, if things were like they used to be, he could have rested his head on Curt’s shoulder, or slipped an arm around his waist. But as things stood, the gesture walked the line between intimate and eerie and Curt couldn’t decide whether it would be better or worse if he could actually feel Owen’s breath on the back of his neck.

 

But the closeness wasn’t an issue, per se, until Curt opened the drawer of his bedside table, and Owen was close enough to peer down and see the contents.

 

“How do you have that?”

 

Owen’s voice made Curt jump, and he slammed the drawer shut in a motion that was too fast to not be suspicious. 

 

Curt knew exactly what Owen saw. The leather bound notebook. Aged and worn. Yellowing pages. Battered from time in and out of various suitcases and hiding spots. 

 

But Curt did what he was best at.

He played dumb.

 

“What?” he asked, with a wavering anxious smile, his voice raising an octave.

 

Owen’s expression reminded Curt of the first morning he’d appeared.

 

“Is that…” Owen hesitated. “Is that my _diary?”_ He looked Curt in the eye. “How the hell do you have that?”

 

“I, uh, I got it from your apartment.” Curt stuttered out.

 

“Obviously, but--”

 

“MI6 asked if I’d come clear out your desk. Seeing as I was your partner and all." Curt jumped into the explanation, his tone of voice painted a sickly shade of nervousness. "They shredded, or burned, or whatever they do, to anything compromising already. And since it was all work related, they couldn’t give it to your family. And I guess no one else wanted it, or maybe they knew _I’d_ want it. Either way, I bought a ticket and flew out to London. They wouldn’t ship it to me; they made me come over on my own. And I, y’know, I sorted through all your things, packed them up. You barely used that desk.” He let out a shaky, watery laugh. “I should’ve known. They had you on double duty in the field, working with them and running around with me. But I, well,” Curt rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I overheard some of your, uh, fellow agents talking and they mentioned how they were going to be going through your apartment the next day and I, well, I mean,” he stammered, trying to find his justification, “I figured that I had to do the same thing they did.” 

When he was met with a blank look from Owen, he clarified.

“Scope the place out for anything… _compromising.”_

 

“You broke into my flat.” Owen deadpanned.

 

Curt shrugged.

 

Owen bristled, brows knitting together. “What did it matter to you if they found anything compromising? I was _dead.”_

 

“First of all, you _weren’t_ dead.”

 

“You didn’t know that.”

 

“And, second of all, it would have _compromised_ me, too.”

 

“Oh, so you read it.” Owen threw his hands up in a show of indignity. 

 

 _“Of course I read it!”_ Curt blurted out. “I thought you were gone! I thought I wouldn’t have anything left.” he flung the drawer back open, pulling the diary out. “But, holy shit, reading this? It was just like hearing your voice again.” he flipped to one of the first pages, which he’d dog-eared, and read part of it off.

 “January 18, 1950:

I have been assigned a partner on this upcoming mission. It’s the first time in months. An American, in fact. I’ve read his file, and his description intrigues me, although my superiors have warned me that we probably won’t get along. 

I’ve also been provided a photograph.

He’s handsome.”

His voice cracked at the last line, and he tried to fight back the tears that were forming, not wanting to cry twice in the same night. “God, Owen.” he coughed out. He let out a shaky sigh. “And that’s-- that’s the only thing I took.”

 

Owen raised an eyebrow.

 

“Okay!” Curt admitted, voice raising as he flashed his hands up in a ‘you got me’ gesture. “That and _one_ jacket, but _that’s it,_ I swear!”

 

Curt tossed the book back into the drawer.

“Everything else is stuff you left here on your own.”

 

“Everything else?” Owen repeated. “Exactly how many of my personal items are you hoarding, Mega?”

 

Curt gulped. 

“Well, goodnight!” He moved to turn out the light.

 

Owen crossed his arms, his voice tinged with unease. _“Mega--”_

 

" _Goodnight,_ Owen.” He flicked the light off and laid back down, shutting his eyes and rolling so that his back was turned to Owen. “We can talk more about it in the morning.”

He laid still for a few moments with his eyes shut, letting his breathing slowly even out. After the stunt Owen pulled the previous night, Curt knew how badly he needed this rest.

 

“I know you’re not asleep.” 

 

Curt groaned. “Well maybe I would be, if you’d stop talking.” He cringed slightly, feeling the chill of Owen’s eyes still on him. He could feel himself about to regret the next words out his mouth, knew he shouldn’t say them, but still, somehow couldn’t resist the urge to glance over his shoulder and ask: “Do you want to lay down?”

 

Owen looked taken aback. His eyes widened as if the question itself startled him. He stuttered out his response. “I don’t-- I don’t sleep. I can’t.”

 

Curt dropped his head back onto his pillow. “Have you tried?”

 

Owen was silent. Curt worried that perhaps he’d offended Owen, pushed too hard. He’d experienced what Owen was capable of when angry, and feared that it would happen again. What felt like a long, awful silence, Curt realized, only came about because Owen’s footsteps didn’t make any noise. He’d crossed to the other side of the bed and now came into Curt’s view. He climbed up onto the bed. It was a familiar action, one Curt had witnessed many times. Now, however, it felt strange. Not wrong. No, not wrong at all. But strange. 

 

Owen laid flat on his back, perfectly still, arms folded over his chest. It reminded Curt too much of Owen’s funeral for comfort, even though his was closed casket, too reminiscent of how they pose a corpse in a coffin, and he rolled over to his other side to give himself a little seclusion from the memory. 

 

He sighed. “Goodnight, Owen.” he said, one final time. He still couldn’t believe that he was addressing him directly.

 

His disbelief was further compounded by the soft, barely audible, slightly cracked, British accented voice beside him. 

No more than a whisper.

 

“Goodnight.” 


	7. Chapter 7

“Curt.”

 

“Five more minutes.”

 

Owen groaned and repeated himself. _“Curt.”_

 

Curt cracked his eyes open, letting out a whiny and tired _“What?”_

 

A few years ago this would have been normal. Lingering in the moment of morning, trying to make it last. Half-awake. Curt liked the feeling of being half-awake. It was comfortable. Everything slow, everything languid, and everything a little dulled. Life moves fast, and it moved even faster for him. But in those few blissful seconds of morning, time didn’t pass like sand, it dripped. Like molten glass. And the warmth of it. Owen’s voice next to him. If things were like they used to be he could have curled up against him, but he wouldn’t even need to. Owen would already have an arm slung over him. It was a gesture he’d at one time tried to justify as “protective” but soon enough relented that he just liked to have someone to hold. Everything melted in the morning, two bodies into one. With the knowledge that they’d be out in the field risking their own lives that same day, it was easy enough most of the time for Curt, by virtue of bleary eyes and bedhead, to get a smile to spread across Owen’s face, which meant just a few moments more in that perfect time in between.

 

But nothing was normal anymore. Not a damn thing.

 

Curt spared a glance over his shoulder to see that Owen was right where he’d left him, although he’d sat himself up, back rigid and clearly anxious. The sunlight that entered the room shone literally through him like a prism, streaking down onto the bed. If Curt squinted he might be able to see the colors separate. It would be almost beautiful. Ethereal. 

But Owen spoke up again.

“Curt, your watch.”

 

It took Curt a second for his brain to catch up with everything. He stared at Owen, who stared back, until he eventually heard the telltale ringer on his watch himself and blurted out an “ah, shit.” 

 

He reached for the watch, which sat on his bedside table and took the call, not bothering to check who it was, having a feeling that he already knew. 

 

He opened his mouth to let out a greeting, but yawned instead, cringing at the sound of it echoing through the receiver.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I _wake_ you, Mega?” Cynthia’s voice came crackling through, sarcastic as ever. 

 

“No,” Curt lied, “I’ve been up.”

 

“Well it took you long enough to answer.” she snapped. 

 Curt sighed. He knew he had slept in, although he wasn’t sure exactly by how much. But Owen waking him indicated that his watch had probably been buzzing for some time. And Owen, himself was a whole other issue. He cast his eyes over and found Owen staring as usual, but this time he ducked his head out of respect, or perhaps embarrassment. He was surprised, to say the least, that Owen was still in bed with him, but it occurred to him that he didn’t exactly know where else he’d go. 

 

“Look,” he started, “I’m sorry--”

 

“Save it.” she butted in. “I expect you in my office today. The usual time. Just got a mission assignment in and you’re the man for the job. 

 

“Lucky me.” he deadpanned.

 

“Spare me the attitude, Mega. You should be grateful that I'm even giving you work.”

 

“Of course.” he sighed, before she hung up without so much as a goodbye.

 

He looked back over at Owen, catching him staring, but Owen for once cast his eyes downwards, as if in embarrassment.

 

“So…” Owen spoke, still not making eye contact with Curt, “We’re going to see Cynthia today?” 

 

Curt huffed. _“I'm_ going to see Cynthia today. You’re not coming.” 

 

Curt rose from the bed, and Owen followed suit on his own side, protesting. "That’s not exactly up to you, love.” 

 

Curt turned to face him, a certain solemnity entering his expression, as he held up his hands as if to make an announcement, or perhaps a confession.

 

_“Owen Carvour, I forgive you.”_

 

There was a pause.

A stillness in the room.

A silence.

 

Nothing happened.

 

Curt shrugged. “Worth a shot.” He turned his back once more to focus on getting ready for the day.

 

“What do you mean ‘worth a shot’?” Owen sputtered.

 

“I dunno, thought that might be your ‘unfinished business’ or whatever.”

 

“Unbelievable.” Owen crossed his arms. “Did you even mean it?”

 

Curt shrugged once more. “Not really.”

 

Owen frowned and turned away while Curt continued his morning routine. “I am serious, though.” he continued. “Don’t follow me. You made it hard enough last time to focus. You know I have trouble with--”

 

“Yes, I’m well aware.” Owen piped up from his side of the room.

 

“Then stop exploiting it!” he blurted. “I believe you now. Whatever.” he waved a hand as if to wipe the words out of the air, ashamed of how they sounded out loud. “Let me have this one meeting. Hang back here. Please.” 

There was an edge of desperation to his voice, urged to the forefront by his tiredness.

He looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Owen shifting awkwardly.

“You… _can_ go where you want without me, can’t you?”

 

“You’re the only person who sees me.” Owen replied, although it wasn’t an answer.

 

“Not what I asked.”

 

“I don’t kn--” Owen started, before cutting himself off as if the words were too much a confession. “I mean, I suppose so. I haven’t exactly done it.”

 

“Would you at least try? I mean, you don’t even seem to like being around me, and you’ve got good reason. You’ve gotta want some privacy too.”

 

“It’s just--”

 

“Come on. It’s the briefing. You know those don’t take long, especially the first.”

 

When Owen still didn’t look convinced he added, “An hour. Tops.”

 

Curt tried to gauge the change in Owen’s expression. He tried to be condescending, but the look in his eyes conjured images of dogs tied to posts waiting sadly for their owners. 

He tried to shake the thought out of his head while Owen spoke up again.

“I should think you’d _want_ me there. I thought you _missed_ me. And now you know it’s really me. You know, you’re the only man I ever loved, and--”

 

 _“Shut it, Casper.”_ Curt snapped, cutting him off. 

 

Owen blinked, taken aback and, frankly, offended. 

 

“I’m not gonna let you manipulate me today. I’m not in the mood.”

 

Owen opened his mouth as if to speak, but Curt pressed on. “If it’s really you, and you’re really a--” he cringed at the word, “ _ghost,_ then I want to know the rules.”

 

Owen raised an eyebrow. “The rules?”

 

“Yeah, the rules. Look, neither one of us wants this to be happening. Clearly. So we owe it to ourselves to at least try and figure out how it all works. Don’t tell me you aren’t curious.”

 

Owen was silenced then, casting his gaze downwards once more.

 

“Owen? Come on, tell me you’ll at least try.”

 

“An hour?”

 

“An hour.” Curt affirmed. “No longer.”

 

Owen let out a loud sigh. “Fine.”

 

Curt grinned. “Thank you, dear.” he replied, with a distinct snark to his tone.

 

He finished getting ready and headed out the door, sparing a glance over his shoulder at Owen, who looked tense, but nevertheless offered a tight lipped smile and a half-hearted wave goodbye.

 

The meeting with Cynthia was just about what Curt expected. The standard rundown. He managed to interrupt some important phone call as always and got chewed out for it. She slid the file across her desk cavalierly for him. Blueprints, maps, suspect profiles. Nothing he wasn’t used to. Despite Cynthia’s looks of distrust, he felt more confident than he had in a while. Perhaps it was simply getting a little more sleep. More than anything, he assumed it was because he didn’t have Owen with him at the moment. The old adage seemed to be true. “Out of sight, out of mind.” He could almost forget that Owen would be waiting for him when he got back, and more than anything, he wished he could. 

Cynthia added near the end of the meeting that he should study the file in the time he had, since it had come in early, well before his flight was scheduled to leave. 

Finishing with, in lieu of a farewell, “And don’t fuck up.” as she sent him out the door. 

 

After a short detour, he returned to his apartment, unprepared for the sight waiting beyond the door. “Honey, I’m home--” he started to joke, before being interrupted. 

 

_“Don’t do that again.”_

 

It wasn’t a greeting. It came out more like a desperate rushed plea from Owen. it was clear that he had pacing, looking anxious and out of sorts. Curt thought, in fact, that he looked even more see-through than usual, although he wasn’t sure that it wasn’t just a trick of his eyes.

 

“Hey, calm down. I’m back.”

 

 _“You said an hour.”_ Owen blurted. _“You said an hour, and you lied.”_ All his charm and suave smugness had been dropped. He looked a bit like a scared child, lashing out, trembling. 

 

“I made a quick stop--” he tried to insist.

 

_“You left me.”_

Owen’s eyes were almost wild. Curt wondered if he’d been crying, and then wondered if he even _could_ cry. 

 

Without thinking, Curt was already stuttering out an apology. “I’m sorry-”

 

_“You left me. Again.”_

There was darkness in Owen’s voice, and the whole room felt cold, as if a shadow had passed over the sun. 

 

Curt held up the bag in his hands, defending himself. “I went shopping a little, that’s all. Just picked up a few things. I’m here for the rest of the day.” He crossed the room and sat down on his couch, plopping the bag down onto his coffee table, sending some of its contents haphazardly spilling out. 

Owen immediately practically scrambled to sit next to him. He looked down at the table and the scattered items it held.

Various books with generically oriental designs, along with stars and crescent moons, and sheet ghosts.

A “Mystifying Oracle” board, still in its box with an ominous shrouded figure on the cover of it.

A Magic 8-Ball, sent rolling from the bag, that tumbled and stilled finally, with “outlook not so good” reading clearly on the die as it bubbled to the top.

And that’s just what he could immediately see.

 

“What _is_ all this?” Owen asked,  exasperation tugging at his tone.

 

Curt suddenly felt a little sheepish. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, okay? I’m trying to figure this out.”

Owen huffed like he found the whole thing ridiculous. “You kept me waiting for _this?”_

He shifted closer to Curt regardless, almost subconsciously.

 

“Well, I actually did meet with Cynthia. And you know how she can be.”

 

“Right.” Owen nodded. “What is the mission, anyway?”

 

“How about I tell you tomorrow?” Curt offered. “I barely got a chance to look at the file yet.” 

It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth. As petty as it might sound, Curt couldn’t deny that he just wanted to hold onto the information for a little while longer, finally be the one who knows more than other, even if just for a short time. 

 

Owen nodded, shifting closer even still.

Curt could see in every aspect of his body language that he was still disheartened, desperate for some comfort and closeness. He’d seen him like this before only after extremely difficult missions, and couldn’t believe that the simple act of leaving him alone for a little had made him this distraught. If he was in a teasing mood, he’d call him needy, but something in his eyes made straight shot for his empathy, and he couldn’t help but feel bad. Owen had never been much for accepting pity, but Curt couldn’t resist.

 

Owen moved his arm slightly, as if to reach out and hold Curt’s hand, but flinched back at the last second. He looked away immediately, like Curt wouldn’t notice.

 

“Hey, it’s alright.” Curt said softly, the way one might speak to a stray cat to try and get it to come close. “Do you want to?” He held out his hand.

 

 “I don’t-- Curt, we’ve never even _tried._ We don’t know what would happen.” Owen’s voice was steady, but the longing seeped out through the cracks.

 

“All the more reason to go for it then, right?” Curt suggested, with a weak smile, “We’re trying to figure out the rules.”

 

Owen bit his lip for moment, looking conflicted. He took a breath. _“The rules.”_   he repeated before extending his own hand to touch Curt’s.

 

Curt couldn’t describe what he felt then, not if he had all the time and dictionaries in the world. Unreal, paranormal. He gasped out loud, and Owen drew his hand back in an instant.

 

Owen whispered a shocked _“Did you feel that too?”_

 

Curt found that all the words had left his mind, and opted for simply nodding.

 

“I think I…” Owen trailed off.

 

Curt immediately held his hand out again, making eager emphatic eye-contact. 

 

Owen just stared at it. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

 

“I have to know.” 

 

With that, Owen reached out once more.

He moved his hand as if to take hold of Curt’s by lacing their fingers together, but his own hand passed right through. Only, not through. _Into._

Curt felt the loss of control of his limb, and could feel Owen’s presence asking for permission, the hesitancy of it, without a word, he lowered his defenses, letting his hand fall limp for just a moment.

Then, he watched as his hand turned over, though not of his own volition. Owen was moving it. Wearing him like a glove. Controlling him like a puppet. That single hand.

The fingers of the hand curled inwards, flexing, before opening back up again. Slowly, as if drinking in the movement. Savoring it.

 

He wasn’t sure what to feel. He wished Owen would talk, but Owen was silent. But somehow, he felt every one of Owen’s emotions, felt his thoughts rather than heard them. It was unbelievable, but he had no choice but to believe it. It was too much. The loss of control and yet the willingness to give it up. The sadness of loss, and the joy of regaining, and the confusion of what anything meant anymore. Feeling two sets of overwhelmingly powerful emotions at once.

It was more than he could bear.

He started crying.

 

And without him doing it himself,

 

His own left hand reached up to wipe those tears away.


End file.
